


The King's Garden

by Grandoverlord



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 21:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandoverlord/pseuds/Grandoverlord
Summary: “I’ll grow a fruit tree here. Do you dwarves eat fruit?”“It’s been known to happen.” Thorin surveyed the garden-- which was really just a patch of mountainside, at this point, that looked flat enough to make something out of-- and sighed. “You should plant for beauty, too. Not just to eat.”





	The King's Garden

“Long, even rows, the quiet buzz of bees-- imagine it, Thorin. That first peek of green on the side of these jagged peaks,” Bilbo murmured. “You can grow your own food here, not rely so much on Dale, if you like.”

“Dwarves don’t like leaves,” Thorin said.

“I recall a certain mountain king downing about a pound of creamed spinach at his coronation feast.” Bilbo took a puff of his pipe to hide his smile, but he couldn’t keep it out of his voice. “Mind, that spinach was about half parts butter as well.”

“And Bombur’s cooking. I’d be a fool to pass that up-- even the leaves.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’d eat my own library if Bombur put it in butter,” Biblo chuckled.

“And you’d enjoy it, too!” Kili’s voice leapt from behind the fence.

Bilbo leaned back against the mountainface, closing his eyes in the sun. Thorin sat to his side, somehow both resplendent in his thread-of-gold tunic and grounded, his weather-beaten face and pushed up sleeves a reminder that Thorin was no stranger to the world Bilbo knew. The others bustled about the patch of land that was to be designated the King’s Garden-- not something Erebor had seen before, but then, the time was ripe for change.     

“One day, this spot’s going to be right in the shade,” Bilbo said.   

“Mm.”

“I’ll grow a fruit tree here. Do you dwarves eat fruit?”

“It’s been known to happen.” Thorin surveyed the garden-- which was really just a patch of mountainside, at this point, that looked flat enough to make something out of-- and sighed. “You should plant for beauty, too. Not just to eat.”

Bilbo gave him a look of surprise.

“A man that stops at plain swords and iron tools is less a smith than I am a gardener.” Thorin explained, lifting Bilbo’s hand and traced the contours of his fingers. “If you’re going to make something, you ought to make it beautiful. There’s artistry in all creation.”

“And what art do you make?” Bilbo mused.

“Not much, in the last years.” Thorin let down Bilbo’s hand. “But perhaps I’ll pick it up again. In my youth, I made delicate silver necklaces and rings that told stories, small enough to fit on your littlest finger, but rendered in all the detail of Elvish song. I’d make something for you, if you’d let me.”

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes, and saw something tenuous there-- an uncertainty that rested uneasy on Thorin’s brow.

“I should like that,” Bilbo said. Relief flashed across Thorin’s face. “But!” He wagged a finger. “You have to let me make something for you too.”

The look on Thorin’s face, of quiet shock and even a touch of awe-- set Bilbo’s heart pounding and his face coloring from more than the sun.

“You need not do that, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “I would make something for you, but I would not ask--”

“Well I’m offering.” Bilbo stood, brushed himself off, and placed his hands on his hips. “And that’s that.”

“What would you make for me, my hobbit?”

“I hadn’t thought quite that far.” He looked around. “I’m-- well I’m no smith, that’s for sure--”

“Is Bilbo joining us in the forges?” Gloin laid down his wheelbarrow and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I don’t think he’d survive a single misplaced hammer-strike,” Oin offered. “Meaning no offense, my friend.”

“Oh, none taken…” Bilbo trailed off as he saw the rest of the dwarves start to trot over. “How is it,” he murmured to Thorin. “That none of this company comes when they’re called, and yet are always happy to offer themselves when they’re not?”

Thorin chuckled, but offered no answer.

“What’s going on, then?” Balin asked.

“Bilbo fancies himself a craftsman. He’s offered to make something for our king,” Gloin said, his tone one of conspiracy.   

A sea of surprise gaped back at him-- and very quickly, a set of grins, wide and open, as the dwarves tended to do more and more these days.

  “How about some toys, Bilbo?” Bofur asked, wrapping a jaunty arm around the hobbit. “Nothing like burning the midnight oil over a set of wheels or the smile of a dancer-- details in the miniature, of course.”

“Does he look like a toymaker to you?” Fili unspooled Bofur from Bilbo and pointed at the hobbit. “This, my friends, is a swordsman in disguise.”

“That’s not even an art!” Nori called.

“More than weaving!”

Bilbo felt like the dwarves were trying to persuade each other more than him.

“Bilbo is not a _dwarf,_ ” Dori called. “He is not crude--” he said, giving Kili a tap on the head, “or _violent_ \--” and one for Fili. The two looked dutifully chastised. “He’s a hobbit. It’s the quieter arts for him.”

This started an argument of its own, of course, a chorus of indignant protestation cutting off the old dwarf’s argument.

Bilbo looked around-- no one was paying him any attention. His fingers played over the ring in his pocket, and before he knew it, it had nestled safe and sound in the crook of his ring finger-- and he was gone.

“Aw, look what you’ve done,” Kili said to his brother. “You’ve scared him off!”

“Me?” Fili said, taken aback. “ _You_ were the one yelling about--”

“No one’s scared me off, my friends.” Bilbo removed the ring, now halfway to the other side of the garden. The group of dwarves spun to find him. “I just thought that I might think about it by myself for a bit.”

“Ah,” Balin said. “Of course, Bilbo. I suppose it is something you have to decide for yourself.” He nodded approvingly at the other members of the group. “Now we should give our hobbit some space.”

“Let us know if you need anything, lad.” Dwalin touched Bilbo’s shoulder, a surprisingly affectionate move from the dwarf. “It’s good of you.”

Nodding, Bilbo started on the mountain path that led away from the garden, into where the grasses had not been cleared and wildflowers were starting to bloom.

“Are you alright, my hobbit?” Thorin’s voice wove its way through the grass. “I understand that the company can be… overwhelming, especially to the quieter folk.”

“It is done out of love, and I cannot begrudge them that,” Bilbo answered. “Though perhaps sometimes I wish it were a bit quieter.”

“And I wish the moon were made of mithril.”

Bilbo chuckled at that. He started walking once more, hands clasped behind his back. Quiet, Thorin walked at his side.

“I wish I was more skilled,” Bilbo said, finally. “Your company reminds me of all the skills I do not have-- of all that I ought, should I stay here.”

“Do you not wish to?”

“I do.” The grass bent beneath his step. “But I cannot help but feel that there is no place for me, sometimes, amongst craftsmen and miners-- I am a scholar and a gentlehobbit, not a smith.”

Thorin’s voice was grave. “No one is asking for you to be anything else. I would not have you change, Bilbo.”

“And I certainly don’t intend on doing so!” Some of the light faded from Bilbo’s voice. “But I do wonder what I may make you.”

They stopped. The end of the trail was an overlook, looming over the valley below. “How small the products of a hobbit’s hands compared to the wealth of a king,” Bilbo murmured.

“A diamond the size of your eye is worth more than a room filled to the ceiling with iron.”

Bilbo shot a confused look.

“Dwarves and hobbits-- sometimes we see different things in the same object,” Thorin said. “The carver and the gardener see the same tree, but where one sees something that would looked beautiful shaped and dead, the latter sees something that must be nurtured to be kept alive. Do you see what I mean?”

“I do, Thorin, but--”

“Let’s say that you made me a dagger. Let us say that it is shoddy work.” Bilbo huffed a bit at this, but Thorin continued. “The blade is brittle and the edges uneven. The handle is falling off, and the ornamentation half worn by the time you get it to me-- I think I know what you would see in that.”

“Not much good, I would say,” Bilbo muttered.

“But _I,_ my dear Bilbo, would treasure it still. I would treasure it more, even for its imperfections; the master can make a thousand perfect daggers without putting a bit of himself into any of them. A beginner must put all of himself into all his work.” Thorin smiled softly. “For dwarves, gift giving is not about the quality of the work.” He ran a hand through Bilbo’s curly hair. “It is about the soul-- the bit of yourself that lingers in everything you make. You give away a part of yourself with a gift, and that is dear indeed.”

“Ah.”

“I understand if, with this knowledge in mind, you’d like to rescind your offer.” Thorin looked away. “Though I must say, I looked forward to seeing your work.”

“I’d hardly take back my promise for that. And you’ve already volunteered to make something for me-- it’d be a bit rude of me not to return the favor.” Seeing Thorin about to protest, Bilbo shook his head. “And I want to. Knowing that. I want you to have something of me.”

Thorin flushed. “I am glad to hear that, my dear hobbit. But what? Have you thought of a craft you would like to turn your hand to?”

“I am a scholar and a gentlehobbit,” Bilbo said. “I believe that what I find most in my heart is neither gold nor wood, nor any of the dwarven crafts that I know-- I believe that I am filled with stories. And I should like to give you one, write it down for you proper.”

“A story? Which one?”

Bilbo looked to the horizon. “The one that matters most. Of our company on their travels-- and of us. I’ve wanted to write it all along, you know. But my plans just won’t do.”

“And why not?”

“The title’s no longer quite accurate, I’m afraid. It was to be ‘There and Back Again’.” Bilbo shook his head. “But I believe it’s ‘there’ that I’ll stay.”

Thorin laughed, one of his rare full smiles lighting his face. “I would be honored to help you think of a new one.”

“How does ‘The Hobbit and His Dastardly Dwarves, sound?”

“Has a certain ring to it.”

“I think we’ll keep working on it.”

Thorin pressed Bilbo to himself in a hug. “That we will.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading! I wrote this for a commission for @competitive-potato-farmer on tumblr, and I had a blast doing it. Just a little fic, but I think cute nonetheless.


End file.
